


The Art of Staying

by angree_baratheon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark isn't as stone-cold, F/M, Gendry works through a million traumas, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, In fact Arya also worked through her trauma, season 8 re-write, tv series based with a hint of the book i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-20 17:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21285770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angree_baratheon/pseuds/angree_baratheon
Summary: But he’d been a stupid boy. Stupid, foolish bull boy who thought he could chase after his own glory, perhaps. Thought he could have meant something than the smith apprentice that had been sold. The Brotherhood had promised him a place to belong, and, like a lost child being offered sweets, he’d taken the bait. Arya turned her back to him, he remembers, and it’d hurt like nothing else ever has.Or, the story of Gendry and Arya reuniting in Season 8, with better re-telling.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	1. REUNITING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really care so much about Gendry's characterisation and I was so devastated at what's become of him in Season 8. That is, the fact that my boy has _so much_ potential as a character and the TV series? Ignored him. I was also very disappointed with Arya's writing and, for a while, I had a friend, who was a devoted Arya fan, to discuss it with. In some of our discussions, my friend pointed out that, even through the Faceless Men training, Arya wouldn't have been so cold: she would've cared much more regarding Gendry that he wouldn't be the person for her to basically fuck-and-dump. I agree. 
> 
> We write a little, my friend and I, about the versions of how we imagined Season 8 could ideally be. Which, I daresay, makes more sense because we were trying our best to respect who our characters are and what they mean to each other. Unfortunately, I lost contact with my friend, but what we've written had really stuck with me. I decided to recreate the concept of what my friend and I had conjured up with my own personal interpretation. My friend, wherever you are out there: I adore our time together, and I hope I'll make you proud with what I can come up with based on all those things we talked about.
> 
> This whole piece is dedicated to you.
> 
> Additionally, the thing that finally triggered my courage to fully write this into proper paragraphs is Ariel's video of Arya (with a hint of Gendry) using Taylor Swift's The Archer. If you haven't seen it, [do check it out here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qg6nL8wOTT8). It's fantastic, amazing, and the way the videos synced up with the lyrics caused tears to flood my face.
> 
> Without wasting anymore time, here you go.

It wasn’t that Gendry didn’t want to see her.

In fact, it was the opposite. Apart of him longed to do it: to just turn around, march up right to her, and— and _ he doesn’t know _, but surely, he assumes, there’ll be words then. Eyes meeting, blue and grey together. If she could start something, that would be even better. Gendry was never really known anyhow to be a pleasant conversation starter, not when his words had always begin with him glaring down onto something or gritting the word out in a way that seems to anger people.

Arya was always the one to say something first, anyways.

It would be a massive lie, ‘course, to say that he’d forgotten her completely. He’d wanted to—for a long while. Forgot about her, he means. Yet he remembers anyway: sometimes in bits and pieces when he allows it, sometimes it comes in waves. Usually in forms of dreams that he can’t chase away.

And in these dreams—memories, really, most of them—Arya would say something so incredibly bold and stupid. Stupid, only, because she’d always have half the mind to fight the world with that sword of hers. As if that would be enough. As if men Gendry’s size, perhaps even bigger, couldn’t just hold her down and snap her into two. And, as usual, he’ll fight her. Scold her, really.

They were always arguing terribly badly then. Still, somehow—even until now, Gendry couldn’t imagine having trusted someone as much as he had trusted Arya Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell.

So, aye. He would like it very much if he could have the stomach to come up to her and hear her voice. She’d say something, he wagers, something fierce and snappish (or maybe she’ll even get a tiny bit tearful, maybe she’ll smile at the sight of him—if she ever remembers and _ Gods _ , Gendry prays silently, _ please let her remember _) and he’ll be certain to say something. That was just how they worked. Always had been.

They would talk and, maybe, though Gendry didn’t have much of a high hope, somehow it may seem like they’ve never left each other.

His stomach churns at the thought, and Gendry shuts the thought down.

_ Arya Stark died_.

That was the belief he’d held for so long.

In a war that was slowly eating the Seven Kingdoms, Gendry hadn’t had any reason to think otherwise. The last time they’d seen each other were when The Brotherhood had been with them. And if he hadn’t been filled with guilt before, as if he’s stuffed with cotton like those dolls Gendry would see some tailors sew quietly to sell to nobleman’s daughters, he certainly felt an infinite amount of it sitting around his chest and on his spine at the last image of her turned back to him.

_ I could be your family _, she’d said, voice cracking, and her eyes, illuminated by the fire, shine with a thin layer of tears.

Gendry wishes he could say that that was the first time he’d seen her like that. It wasn’t. (There’d be nights when Arya had startled awake and started heaving. He’d pulled her then, to his body, just like that. And she’d be mighty strong when the sun wakes, he used to think. So strong. But it was easy to forget, until that moment, when Gendry could easily drag her small body close, that she was still a child scared out of her wits. “It will be alright,” He always told her, even if he had never believed his own voice. “It will be alright, Arya.”

And at night, when the fire died and the cold seeped, and Hot Pie’s own snores filled the silence, she was always Arya. Not Arry.

Arya sniffled, and let herself be held.)

_ You wouldn’t be my family_, he’d told her. _ You’d be m’lady _.

But he’d been a stupid boy. Stupid, foolish bull boy who thought he could chase after his own glory, perhaps. Thought he could have meant something than the smith apprentice that had been sold. The Brotherhood had promised him a place to belong, and, like a lost child being offered sweets, he’d taken the bait. Arya turned her back to him, he remembers, and it’d hurt like nothing else ever has.

Still. He’d vowed to see her, at least, being returned to Robb Stark.

And he would have helped her, he’d sworn, if it weren’t for Stannis and the Red—

Gendry’s hold on the hammer stutter, and it nearly slips his grip. _ Thank Gods _ he’d caught them before it's left his palm. One of the men they were with as they’re travelling North had warned him that pains in the cold weather are harder to detect. _ Magnus, aye, poor lad, didn’t know he’d cracked all the bones in his foot, ya’ see _ , the man had said, and though it was a serious conversation, Gendry doesn’t bat an eye at the mention of a massive injury. Neither did the man. It was war. Injuries were as common as discussing the weather. _ Not until he’d gotten all warm up about few days later. So, ya’ better be careful, ya’ Southerners. You can’t feel no wounds in the cold, and ye’ can’t fix ‘em if it’s already too late _.

Not that Gendry has enough money nor influences to fix injuries at present, but—he takes the advice as eagerly as he takes any extra layers Ser Davos was willing to give.

“Yer’ alright, lad?” A Northerner—crooked nose, green eyes, and wispy long red hair—looks at him. His hands, Gendry notices immediately, is rough from work, though not from soot. He’s currently setting up a bench. Carpenter, then or the sort. That’s good. With the rapidness of everything unfolding, Gendry can see why more places to sit or put things on are necessary.

He swallows. “Aye.” He tells them. The Northerner nods and ignores him.

Gendry returns back to his work.

Right. When the dragonglass are being sorted, he better fix all of the weapons that has been thrusted to him. That’s what he was doing. That’s what he was _ trying _ to do while his mind ran away, thinking of his boots dragging across the snow—thinking of Arya Stark, the girl he thought who had died when he’d left her, staring back at him.

_ Smiling _, he thinks bitterly. Arya wouldn’t smile when she would see him.

She’d sooner stab him for—for doing what he’d done.

For not believing her when she said she hadn’t trusted The Red Woman. Gendry’s hold on the hammer tightens. This time, instead of guilt, he is overpowered with rage. Gendry doesn’t mind this: he recognises rage like water would to sunlight, like water nymphs would to fountains and lakes. Rage had been what Master Mott had used when he’d been fighting and scraping by the streets before he was told to put his strength into something better, _something_ _useful_.

So, he brings down the hammer and the steel stings.

Gendry does this again and again, and—for a little while—he could almost forget that he’s in the one Kingdom he thought he would never survive at; the one Kingdom he thought he could never have the chance to come and _honour_ _her_ even if, from their bitter parting, he probably has no right to.

_ Arya Stark died because of you. _

_ Arya Stark hated you. _

_ Arya Stark wanted you and you abandoned her. _

“It really is you.” Gendry isn’t sure what stops first: his heart, or the swing of his hammer when he lifts it up, ready to strike it down. One thing remains for certain: he feels stupid, all of a sudden, to breathe as heavily as he is when he finally allows his brain to catches up with what is happening. Here, in his head, without him turning to face her, she had sound composed, if not slightly shocked at the sight of his back. And he—

He’d just been mindlessly working.

Gendry doesn’t mean to, _ doesn’t want to_, but he can’t help feeling as if the massive difference in class between them are more obvious than ever. He was always meant to be the poor man slaving away. Arya… 

Arya is a lady.

Still, Gendry puts his hammer down and turns.

_ You can’t be real_, he wants to say, but she is. He was there when he’d turn his back to mind the dragonglass only to hear a cheering. When he’d peer in through the crowd, Jon has got a hand on Arya’s shoulders, and, for a moment, the Starks had all shared a similar-looking grin. _ Family _, Gendry had thought immediately, taking her in before the guilt had seized him and forced him to stumble away.

He had to take several minutes then to regain his footing when he fell straight at the entrance of the smithy. _ She’s alive_, he had thought at those hours, crying slightly. The tear froze around his lashes, and the warmth of the smithy had wet his eyes when he came near the fire.

But that was hours ago. This is now.

“Jon mentioned Ser Davos bringing in a smithy from the South. I didn’t…” _ Her eyes are so wide _, he thinks, so wide with—with emotions that Gendry can no longer decipher. He thinks there might be disbelief in them, but it’s as if she’s those ladies he would see when he was much younger going down the Street of Steel after their fathers. How they would keep their smiles in place and flutter their lashes at the right places. Arya is almost doing the same, if not for the alternating frowns and pauses that she’s exhibiting. “I didn’t think it’d be you.”

Gendry doesn’t answer, not when all he wants to say is, _ I thought you died _.

“But when Ser Davos…” She trails off, uncertain, and clasps her mouth shut. Gendry realises, quickly, that she’s got one hand over where needle lies loyally. _ Thank you _ , he wants to mouth all of a sudden. _ Thank you for making sure she’s never not armed _. “I came to see if it were true.”

_ I thought you died. _

_ I thought I killed you. _

_ I abandoned you, and you hated me _.

“You—” A pause once more. Arya takes one step forward, but her left foot doesn’t follow. Gendry stays where he is. There is too much to say, yet nothing is escaping him right now. _ She is so pale _ , he notes some more. _ The skin of a Northerner _.

She’s beautiful.

“I asked you to come with me to Winterfell. Do you remember?”

And then, Gendry finds himself nodding once. For the first time, he blinks; blue eyes turned downwards for a quick second. “Aye,” his voice is rough in the cold. Gendry doesn’t like the sound of it. It makes him sound—deeper. Angrier. Usually he likes that; keeps people away when he wants them to. But…

He doesn’t want Arya to go away. Not again.

“I didn’t listen t’you then, though.” He tries to tease, gaze lifting back up, the corners of his mouth turned into what he hopes is a grin.

Arya breathes and, in the white background of her castle, she almost looks like she’s smiling back. It’s not a full smile, and one could barely see it in her lips. It’s in the way her brows relax, and her eyes—they go softer. Gendry sees. She may try to hide it, conceal them with age and the years that separate them, but Gendry sees. “I was terrible at listening to you, too.”

“No,” he immediately disagrees. “You listened to me some.”

“Stupid,” Arya says—

Before she leaps into his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? 'Cause I would die for them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading [the fury](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18844990/chapters/44724283) by nymja and I swore I nearly cried. So, yeah! Do check them out! It's honestly a fantastic read if you fancy something post-season eight and/or the rise of the Baratheons.

He’d been so depraved of contacts, he thinks.

So depraved of touches or any form of it. Master Mott, when he’d grown up along the old sod, wasn’t much of an affectionate man—but he’d been there, regardless. When Gendry had performed well, he would praise Gendry in that way of his that didn’t sound like it was much of a praise. Gendry had learned to read Master Mott, though, as he learnt to read the heat of the steel and the burn of the fire. He knew when he would did good. 

But—there wasn’t much of a hug or anything. Gendry used to tell himself that he doesn’t mind this. Master Mott was his master smith, after all, and not the Pa that he never had. Gendry never expects that much.

(If he had to be honest, he’d expected first for Master Mott to quickly kick him out of the smithy a few moons after he’d come. That was the general destiny of any troublesome and angry parentless children in Flea Bottom. The old man found a way to bully Gendry into cleaning his whole place instead, the bloody wanker before, a year passed, and Master Mott introduced him to shaping steel.)

Then, he’d met Arya. 

Arya who was feisty and growled more than any child ought to. Gendry once thought,  _ Oh dear Sevens, was that how I behaved? _ Feeling an immediate sorry to any adult who has had any contacts with the younger version of him.

He hadn’t meant to be so close to Arry, in his defence. In fact, Gendry had made it absolute certain that he wasn't in the mood to make friends of any sort while he was essentially marched to his death. Aye, they told him that he’s been sold to take the black, and, if he’s lucky, he could work at the smithy there ‘stead of being sent to fight the wildlings.  _ But he would die _ , is what he doesn’t tell both Master Mott and Yoren when he was pushed along the crowd to get to where the rest of the recruits were.  _ I would die of the cold first, I reckon, and it won’t matter if the smithy is hot, my lord, ‘cause my cock’s surely to freeze as well as m’hands and feet and face and everythin’ else _ .

Yet, Arry hovers around him anyways.

And when they’d been lost in the woods, trying to find some sort of path to bring them back home—or somewhere safe, somewhere neither the Gold Cloaks or any other enemies in between could stumble upon them—Gendry had learned that simple touches could go a long way.

A pat on the shoulder calmed Hot Pie when the boy was snotting out sobs at Arya lashing out or any thoughts of Lommy or home startled him. An arm around Arry’s body got her to stay still when the nightmares in the dark had caused her to whimper and cry. They’d return the same when Gendry couldn’t stop shivering.

(“A blanket,” Hot Pie had said that one time, wrapping the moth-eaten rag around his shoulders even if all Gendry had wanted was to sink lower into the ground and gave up.

“Stupid bull.” Arya had chastised, fingers stained with her efforts to build a fire as she sat herself next to him. She was small then, so small to compare to Hot Pie and Gendry himself, and her bones are sharp when their shoulders are pressed like this. Still, the heat of her brings comfort like Gendry had never expected. “We’ve still got a long way to go, you know.”

Arya laid her tiny head on his trembling shoulder. Hot Pie tried his best to create a decent soup with what he and Arya gathered today.)

Afterwards, they were separated.

Gendry brushes the thought of Dragonstone, and knows, deep in his heart, the closest form of contact he’s had since was with Ser Davos when the old man had tended to him as he was recovering from that long run away from the wights.  _ My fifteen-year-old self would have a damned chest pain, he would, if he’d found out that I not only survive a trip beyond the wall. I’d run in the snow while I’m at it _ .

_ Be quiet, lad. Here _ . Ser Davos passed him a broth then.  _ Warm yer’self up _ .

And to think—

“Arya,” he breathes, his own arms going around her so naturally that it half-frightens him. Moons ago, all memories he had of Arya was only triggered in the ways that Jon would sometimes frown or stare. Gendry would remember dark hair and furious work of eyebrows. He would remember his whole body crawling with tension, wanting to spill,  _ I know yer’ sister. I let her die on my watch _ , but watch, cowardly, as nothing comes up. He doesn’t remember Arya smiling—their memories together were always her angry or upset or sad or glaring or fighting somebody. She was determined and reckless and bold. She wasn’t happy. That made sense then, why she wouldn’t be smiling.

(But  _ he _ had been. Her small hands would push and swing around to hit him.

“You know I don’t quite feel nothin’ with those tiny little fists, yeah?” He would tease, and she’d huff in a way that would look as if her pale cheeks are bloated pink and Gendry would laugh and laugh.)

Gendry doesn’t really remember her—just that she was so wild,  _ I’ve got wolf in my blood, Gendry _ , she’d said once, dark hair and wide pretty pale eyes—but it’s as if his body has never forgotten. The heat of her, both from her body and her clothes, are taken in. Gendry closes his eyes when, so close like this, he could hear her breath spilled into his ear. She smells—different. Clean.

Gendry thinks she deserves to smell clean.

_ I thought you died _ , he closes his eyes, and somehow, tightens his hold around her.

“It really  _ is _ you,” she breathes once more, and Gendry can feel her head shifts against his shoulder, feels the press of her nose and cheek against the span where his clothes are sewn with his collar. 

“I’m sorry.” She croaks all of a sudden, and Gendry’s heart breaks a bit more, if it were possible.

He shakes his head quickly against the leather of her wear, and if he’d lifted her up slightly in the process, he hadn’t quite noticed. “No,” it’s the first time Gendry thinks he’d sounded so firm and true, instead of being hesitant. Instead of sounding slow and like a coward. He repeats it again, having a terrifying thought that she may not hear. “Stupid. Why would you be sorry for? Gods, Arya.”

_ I thought you died _ .

“I thought I lost you.”

And then, just as quickly, Gendry feels her pull back— _ no, please, just one second more _ —and he reluctantly released her. 

Her eyes are the same wide, pale colour.

She shakes her head, slow—and her voice comes out in a quiver. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” he nods.  _ You are _ .  _ But for so long, I thought _ —

_ She’s taller _ , he intercepts his own line of thinking,  _ but still so small _ . The top of her head only just reaches his chin. She has one gloved hand on his left chest, the other rests on his arm that are still hovering her sides—and it’s like they were back in the forest, Gendry’s large form always looming around to make sure Arry would never run into any trouble, to make sure Arry would always know that Gendry is right there if he’s needed.

“You’ve grown,” his throat works, and  _ Gods _ , he shouldn’t be staring at a Lady this openly, shouldn’t even be touching her as boldly as he has,  _ the King would absolutely have my head _ , but—

“So have you.” She’s still staring. Her gaze rests with his eyes, before she flickers them upwards. One of her hand comes up, and she touches the place where his temple lies. “You cut your hair shorter.”

Gendry nods, breathes out. “Long story.” And it is.  _ Did you know what happened to me, Arya? How my bloody uncle wanted to kill me? _ And then,  _ I thought you died I thought you died I thought I left you and you were killed _ .

“Hm.” She hums, and the awe that’s been gathered in her eyes slides back into—into  _ nothingness _ . Into a controlled calmness that Gendry finds himself being slightly guarded around. The Arya in his head were always so full of expression. Everything she feels, it’s shown in the way her face would work. And Gendry, he knows… He knows that it’s—it’s not like that right now.  _ What happened _ , he almost wants to ask, frowning. Arya is quick to add, “I’ve got a long story of mine, as well.”

“I’d imagine.”  _ I thought you died _ . He feels the sudden urge to cup her face, just to make sure she wasn’t a ghost that he’s talking to.

Of course she wasn’t, though. Jon had touched her. And Sansa, in the memories he had of a few hours ago—maybe it was days ago—was smiling together at something one of the crowds was saying. Lady Sansa wasn’t much for smiling. Then again, all the Starks seemed so solemn, Gendry thinks. Yet, in that moment before he pulled himself away, half of his body convulsing with shock, they were all smiling.

“I…” There is nothing to her face—nothing that Gendry can tell and somehow help her with whatever she thinks she was going to ask or point out. So, he waits. He waits, and watches as Arya pulls her hands back to herself and stands straighter: the posture of a nobleman. Somehow, despite what he notes, Gendry doesn’t feel intimidated.  _ She’s still so small _ . With two weapons, apparently, but that’s a conversation for later. “Come with me.”

Gendry feels like he’s choking on air. “Sorry?” He splutters. Already, her with her brilliantly bizarre idea.

Arya looks as if she’d like to roll her eyes, but she stops before she could perform it fully. Gendry knows the tell well. “It’s been years. There’s so much to tell, isn’t there?” And, as if Gendry hadn’t heard her the first time, she repeats it again—this time, there’s a slight desperation in her voice. No. Not desperation. A plea, perhaps. Just a tiny bit. “Come with me.”

_ I can be your family _ .

Gendry turns, his back to her, and picks some of the tools away. He wants to shake his head, and eventually he does, but there’s a sharp painful feeling of doing the act. Here, Arya is open about wanting him around. Just wanting him. And here he is, denying her again. He feels like puking. “I can’t.” He says, over his shoulder, meeting her eyes quickly. “I—” a curse, low under his breath, “I want to. I do. But I’ve been brought here out o’ the kindness of yer’ lord brother. I can’t neglect my duties. A knight fights. A smith…”

He gestures all around the station he’s been put at,  _ a smith forges weapon _ , and it hurts, suddenly, to know that she’s stepped near. Close enough that her presence seems so much, so intrusive, and yet—it wasn’t as if she’s touching him or the like—so Gendry isn’t so sure why it would be painful.

It wasn’t like the Red Woman. If Gendry had said no right now, surely Arya will step back.

“I’ve work.”  _ M’sorry _ , he wants to say, and in his head, he hears his own stupid reply echoing from the past,  _ You won’t be my family. You’d be m’lady. _ “And you...” He glances over. Her hair is long now, pulled back into a bun of a Northerner. It suits her. Gendry wants to say that.  _ The North suits you _ , but his mouth doesn’t work. “You’re a lady now. Surely you’ve got some other lady things t’be doin’, yeah?”

_ Lady things _ , with that sword of hers. Gendry can imagine it: all of the other ladies sewing and sipping some fine teas, and there is Arya Stark, with needle and beckoning a fight.

The best lady out of all, he thinks.

Arya doesn’t say anything for a long time, her eyes squinting, and Gendry wonders, for a moment, if he’s sprouted something so incredibly wrong. That Arya will return back to her brother, told him about a rude smith from the South, and he’d have his head hang the next day.

Instead,  _ finally _ , there’s a small huff of what he thinks are laughter. She shakes her head, looks towards her shoes. “I told you not to call me that.” And, her grey eyes sneaking to see his own blue ones, she mutters again. “Dumb bull.”

Gendry thinks he’s smiling a little, on the outside, but everything in his chest hurts.

_ You’re not sincere, r’you, Arya. You’re not sincere, and—s’it what I said? Have I hurt you again? I don’t want t’hurt you none. Never. I didn’t mean to. _

“I want t’know.” He hears his own voice speak. “I want to— _ so much _ .” There’s an instant there that Gendry looks down towards her hand—the one that she’s clasped behind all professional like—and wonders, dumbly, if he should take it. He’d squeeze them. Like those tales he would hear a storyteller sings and speak of at the docks when he was still in King’s Landing, how the knight or the man would grasp on his loved one’s fingers, plea for them to stay or to love him back. “After. Dinnertime. I’ll find you, yeah? I’ll find you, and we’ll sit somewhere. Somewhere where your family can see us,”  _ where they will know I never mean you harm _ , “—but it’d be just the two of us talking. Nobody else, and I would… I’d hear you. I—I won’t go anywhere else. I won’t leave ye’ anymore. But… but after. I’ll hear everything.”

It’s still barely an hour passed afternoon and yet, on the outside, the sky is already darkening. It’s odd. Time, here. Gendry has heard rumours of how the night lasts longer in the North. How the night comes quicker. Gendry hadn’t known it’d be this quick.

Though Arya’s eyes are a pale grey of the moon in spite of it all.

It eases him, her eyes. Maybe it always has.

“I promise,” his own voice comes out half-pleading. He wants her to believe him, though he thinks there are more chances now that she’ll turn her back and leave him there, never to be acknowledged. And why wouldn’t she? He left her. He told her that he won’t follow her anymore even though it’s been what they’ve been talking about since they ran away together. He abandoned her even when they were family.

_ I could be your family _ .

But it’d taken him nearly dying in a rowboat, mouth parched and eyes stinging with saltwater, to realise that they already  _ were _ a family. He just rejected her, in the end.  _ Left her _ .

And she will leave him again, he knows it.

“Dinnertime.” She says instead, with a careful and firm nod of her own—like she’s clarifying the promise to herself, like she’s judging if this was a good decision and confirming the result. “Find a place far back, under one of the direwolf banners. I’ll be there.”

_ You won’t leave me? _ Gendry could barely swallow around what he should reply.

He smirks a little, in the end, inclining his head. “As m’lady commands.”

“Stop it,” she chastises, but the light in her eyes, reflected by the fire behind them, twinkle, and there’s so much that Gendry feels in the moment. Relief, heartache, guilt, familiarity, glad—it all wrapped into one. “Find me, Gendry.”

“I will.”  _ I came to the North for you. I wanted to honour your memory. Do you know this? _ “I swear.”

She nods again, tracking herself back. “Don’t be late, then.”

When Arya twirls herself out of the forge with a smile that’s both an adult woman’s and a child’s, Gendry feels another emotion. One he couldn’t quite figure out just yet but knows, without a doubt, that it’s important. That it’s hers instead of his own, this emotion. It will always be hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Does anybody like the way Gendry's the only person in the show who could pronounce Arya's name beautifully, or? Just me?
> 
> ii. So, yes. In one of my tags, I mentioned about not portraying Arya "as cold" as the show had. I don't know if my interpretation came across, but I _do_ write Arya as more sympathetic and understanding. She isn't as closed-off as the tv series had interpreted her to be, and I think she won't be as cryptic as well. This doesn't mean Arya _can't be as cold_, especially when she feels threatened, but I also think she would've also respected / trusted / loves the people she keeps close to her enough to not—be as frigid, I suppose?   
  
Like, especially Gendry? Whom she had trusted the majority part of when she had grown up as a prepubescent child with? I felt like, as much as she tries to keep her guard up, there's this part of her that's more eager to protect and shield. And to protect and shield someone so strongly, Arya would've either trusted or love them. And I don't think Arya would've been unconcerning and flippant about it when she supposedly "cares so deeply" about them, right?
> 
> I'm not certain if I make any sense, but I don't like the narrative that just because Arya's trained to be a merciless assassin, that she would have had treated the people she loves the way she had, and this is how I'll be writing her to be.
> 
> iii. I'm actually so surprised by the reception I've received from the publication of this fiction! For those who have left kudos, comments, bookmarked or simply read them: thank you so much! Feel free to leave your thoughts some more and, hopefully, I'll be around to respond to them accordingly :)


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